


Of Fire and Fickle Fates

by Paresse



Category: AFK Arena (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, men being useless bisexual disasters, slow burn as fuck, the violence doesn't happen until later chapters but oh boy just you wait for when it does
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-03-13 10:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18939238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paresse/pseuds/Paresse
Summary: A strange new face appears in the graveyard. A Graveborn not born of the Lightbearers. A former Mauler in the midst of many former Lightbearers can only spell trouble, but with the Hypogean forces ever increasing, how can Thoran turn away more help?





	1. The Last Breath

How could it come to this? He can’t stop coughing. Why didn’t the Lightbearers keep their terms? There’s ash on his tongue. He tries not to think about what’s in that ash. Did he not meet every milestone they wanted? Didn’t he do everything right? Where did he mess up? The fires have long since stopped… and the screams stopped long before that. Garion was alone. His tears have stopped falling. Not because he doesn’t want to cry, though. He wants to scream and curse and sob and wail… But his throat is raw beyond measure. How much ash has he inhaled? 

… How much of those ashes are the ashes of his tribespeople? 

The mere thought makes his body wrack in an empty heave. 

He’s certain he’s imagining things at this point. Voices mutter at the edges of his thoughts. And yet he finds himself talking back. What would he do with a second chance? They ask him. If his ropes were unbound, if he was full of life again, he would hunt them down. Burn them. Burn them all like they burned his people. A laugh, cracking and harsh, leaves his throat. Burn them all, suffocate them in their tents, smoke them out like sick little prey animals, just like they did his people! The anger surges through his body and he gives a roar, a wordless scream against the binds, against the cruelty of the world, a promise to avenge his people, he screams it into the dying rays of the sun…

… but as the surge fades, it takes the rest out of him. His last breath dies from his throat with the end of his shriek. His vision goes black as the sky goes dark…

… and he’s gone. Slumped against the ropes, his body limp and unmoving. 

Days pass, but despite no life, his eyes remain clear. As the fifth day comes to a close… the smell of a new bonfire drifts across the desert. And in the ruins of the ravaged tribe, a bright green flame bursts to life. Ropes snap like string. Rich browns and reds are turned to grey, bruise-like skin and vivid cyan. 

Black and green eyes turn to the horizon, and the murmurs in his mind have turn to howls, telling him where to go. A great cloud of smoke leaves his lungs, spilling from between devastating fangs. 

“Only the living need to breathe.”


	2. The First Steps

The long-forgotten, overgrown graveyard is quiet, the gentle hoot of an owl somewhere in the dark and the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. A mother hums a soft, gentle lullaby to her son, fingers running through his hair as he naps on her leg. Her husband is down in the crypt somewhere, she’s sure. But for now it is her and Daimon. It’s been peaceful these last few months. She had woken without her sight after her husband brought her back, but she is happy. Her son is with her forever, now. 

The wind changes direction and her humming comes to a stop. Smoke? She smells smoke. She sits up straighter, her ears straining to hear the crackle of fire. But there is none. The birds and animals have gone quiet at the smell, too, but there’s no sound of open flame. Not close enough for her to hear.

She shakes her son awake and hurries him inside the mausoleum to get her husband. She stays above, her ears kept alert. The scent gets stronger and the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. Her husband’s hand spooks her as it falls gently to her shoulder.

“Sorry, my love.” The rumble of Niru’s deep voice calms her frazzled nerves, if only for a moment.

“I smell smoke, but I can’t hear anything. Daimon said he didn’t see any fire, but…”

Niru’s thumb rubs her shoulder, “We’ll be safe inside even if it is a forest fire… If anythi--” Her husband cuts himself off.

Her head tilts towards him, “Love?” Her voice is a murmur, unsure.

“... Someone’s there.” His voice drops to a whisper.

She straightens her back and turns her head towards the forest, “Who? What? Wilder?” She scowls. Damn wilders, always giving them a struggle.

“... Stay here. I think they’re Graveborn… But they may be Wilder. Stay here and guard the crypt…” Niru’s hand falls off her shoulder and only the gentle sound of his cloak against the leaves and dirt tells her where he is as he strides forward. He stops, near the fence? She thinks that’s the right distance. She strains to listen beyond him, to listen into the forest, to listen for footsteps. She hears an animal run off-- on two legs. That is no animal. But it goes silent. Seconds later the scent of smoke fades.

And Niru returns to her side, “Graveborn. They saw me and spooked, I think they must be new.”

“What kind of Graveborn smells like fire?” She hisses to herself, but shakes her head, letting him by, then following him down into the crypt, “It wasn’t born human, it’s steps sounded like an animal.” Her hand trails along the stone walls, having mapped them out by touch for the most part.

“No, they weren’t human. I couldn’t see much of them, but they had large claws, at the very least. Mauler, maybe.”

“Long way from the desert.” She sighs, “Will they come here?”

“... They may. Looking for their own kind, now. Graveborn aren’t exactly… organized. Or easy to find.”

“...” She frowns deeply, and pauses when they get to his study, her hand finding a familiar dip in the wall.

“Would you turn them away? If they came here?”

The question strikes her deeply, and she pauses before her hesitant quip back, “You just want a test subject that doesn’t complain like Grezhul.”

A low chuckle.

“... No, I wouldn’t.” She sighs, “We aren’t Lightbearers any longer. I have no quarrel with Maulers. I’m surprised you would, Niru. You were in battle with the Maulers, before.”

“I never said I would. But my reason for being on those battlefields was to help, not fight. If they come back, it’ll be a matter for Thoran and Grezhul to accept. This is our tomb.”

She nods her agreement, and steps away from the door, “I’ll go let them know.”

* * *

The days following, the mauler stays distant, observing, it seems. Grezhul had been happy to agree, more graveborn meant more of an army, and Thoran with his good heart somewhere deep in there, grumbled something under his breath about an alliance with maulers.

Now it is a waiting game. Shemira and Daimon are more often above ground. They spot the mauler the most. Daimon describes them to the others as goat-like, with glowing horns and massive paws for hands, a tail that looks like it’s on fire--this bit gives Grezhul a wicked looking smile. But they stay perched in the trees above or far distant in the woods. They disappear for days at a time, but return on occasion. 

But it’s Niru who speaks to them first. Daimon had found a dead wolf in the woods, and Niru agrees that it would make for good ingredients and tools for use. So he lets his son lead him to the body. Daimon returns to the graveyard at his mother’s call,but Niru stays, quietly and expertly making cuts and harvesting what he needs.

A voice speaks out like the gentle crackle of a low campfire, “It was stalking the little one. Two nights ago.”

Niru looks up with a jolt and spots the mauler sitting on a large stone. His legs end in paws, no bigger than the wolf’s, his core and face seem human enough, if darkened grey by death. But true to his son’s words, his hands are massive paws, with jutting claws longer than Niru’s torso. His clothing doesn’t look like the normal garb of a mauler, but he has only seen them in battle. … He’s also much larger than Niru anticipated. Easily two feet taller than himself.

The fiery tail whips around, and Niru gets an eyeful of the wicked, skeletal tip of it, ending in an obsidian blade, “Will you simply stare, then, Lightbearer?”

“I am no Lightbearer.” Niru’s eyes snap to the mauler’s… and he catches himself in that thought. If he is no lightbearer, this man is no mauler. Those eyes look exactly like his own, sickly green and pitch sclera, “We are both Graveborn.”

A rumble, like a laugh, but a shrug of the shoulders, “True enough… Graveborn do not eat, why are you skinning it?” He nods to the corpse.

“I am a necromancer. Wolves have useful parts for my work. Any dead animal large enough, does.” Niru’s sharp claws run through the dense fur.

“At least its corpse will not go to waste.” 

“Even if I had not found it, the forest would have reclaimed and reused it.”

The man blinks a few times, wide eyed at Niru, “You have a hopeful mind for being part of such a hopeless faction.”

“Perhaps.” Niru turns back to the corpse, and for a while silence falls again. The only sounds heard then are the visceral sounds of blade in sinew and guts. After a moment, he wonders if the man has left and glances up, only to see him still there, those glowing eyes still surveying him. As if to figure if he is a threat. He sighs, “Thank you for protecting Daimon, but he could have handled one lone hungry wolf."

“Children should not have to defend themselves, even if they can. The little one’s name is Daimon?”

“Yes.” Niru sighs, “What’s your name?”

“Names are powerful things.” The man stands, “Give me yours first, necromancer.”

“Niru.” He doesn’t hesitate. No creature can get any power over him with his name, not any power he cannot overcome. His confidence seems to stir the man briefly, and he’s given the sight of a mouthful of carnivorous teeth as the man grins.

“I’m Garion. It’s been a pleasure.” Garion turns and hops off the back of the rock, disappearing before Niru can say anything, offer the crypt to him. But the necromancer sighs. 

It’s progress at the least. 


	3. Across the Threshhold

Thoran’s hard nails clack against the table in front of him in a rolling motion, considering as he looked at the old, dusty map in front of him. Many pins of various colors were stuck into it, some red--for reports of his brother--but a vast, vast majority of them purple--known Hypogean attacks. His whole purpose, his whole reason for being alive again, made to seem so small against the sea of purple pins. And those pins kept getting closer and closer to the crypt. One of the great Mauler cities had even fallen. Reports of the Hypogean forces gathering there sent a sharp blade of dread through his gut. If they were allowed to fester, to breed in there… 

Part of his mind raged that he should focus on his brother, find the traitorous little twat before the world ended. But that niggling little part of him that remained after death, that little piece of him that was still a noble and just king, kept his chartreuse eyes zeroed in on that city. He had an army willing to fight for him. If he could rip that festering boil up out of the sands…

The heavy door to the chamber opened with a groan and his mind snapped back to the present, looking up to see Niru step through the door. He heaves a sigh and leans back in his chair, desiccated arms folding in his lap, “What brings you to my humble chamber, hm?”

Niru’s eyes gloss over the map as he quietly strides past it on the table, “The Graveborn in the forest approached me.” His low voice comes as a mutter, pausing by the table. 

“And?”

“...” Niru takes a second to tear his eyes away from the map. Thoran can only imagine the thoughts going through the father’s head. Such a looming threat over his family... “And his name is Garion. He is a former Mauler. He apparently protected Daimon by killing the wolf Daimon found. But he left before I could offer him a place here...”

Thoran heaves a sigh, “A pity.”

A tense silence falls.

“Next time, should he approach you again, make it your foremost priority to offer him in, would you?”

Niru’s eyebrows twitch up just a hair, “It was my plan, regardless, but I’m surprised to hear you say as much.”

The former king’s chest rises and heaves with a deep, heavy sigh, “I will not say I don’t have an ulterior motive. Look here.” He sits up and points a steady finger to the grouping of pins on the fallen Mauler city, “If my contacts are to be believed, the Hypogeans have amassed forces here, likely using it as a base. You say this Graveborn used to be a Mauler. He may be a great asset in breeching those walls.”

Niru is quiet for a long time, his eyes on the map, then on Thoran. The silence breaks and the tension cracks like glass, “You plan to attack, then.”

“I do. I cannot get revenge if the world ends first. And at the rate these attacks are coming… well, Ramhorn already fell once.” Thoran holds Niru’s gaze steadily.

Niru does not reply. He shifts his weight, then moves away from the table, back towards the door.

“Niru.” Thoran’s call is another crack in the glass and Niru’s eyes close, bracing for what he knows is coming.

“You were the greatest medic in all my years ruling. Brilliant and strong-willed.” A beat, “I will need a medic in this endeavour, and there are so few among the graveborn as skilled for both the living and dead as you.”

It shatters. Niru stops his habitual breathing for a solid minute, as still as the corpse he was in his grave.

Then the door slams behind him as he is gone from the chamber, the solid stone shuddering at the force.

Thoran’s eyes close and he slumps a bit in his chair. He knows Niru has seen things unimaginable on the battlefront. The necromancer has made it clear many times that all he wants is to study his craft in necromancy and leave the battlefields behind, in his living days. Still, he hopes he will not come to regret asking.

* * *

The next time Garion approaches someone, it’s Shemira. Days after Niru is given the request, he has broken down and told her what Thoran asked. She is furious that he is even considering it. That he didn’t tell her sooner. In her fury she left the gates of the graveyard and now is lost, not yet having mapped so far out into the forest. In her frustration, she sits on a large stone, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face hidden in them.

Her husband, off to war again? How dare he even consider leaving her and Daimon behind again. Her shoulders shake in her sobs, though no tears come. She doesn’t notice as the scent of smoke brushes by her, not until it’s so strong it’s like she’s seated in front of a campfire. Her head rises just a little, still twisted in dismay and now contorted in fury that some strange mauler has seen her like this. She hears the stranger kneel in front of her. But the question that comes from him is not one she expects.

“What can I do for you?” The voice is calm, like the ever-faint sound of a candle flickering in the wind. He doesn’t pry, he doesn’t tell her to be calm. He asks… how he can help? She’s dazed by the question. But he is patient and waits.

She sniffs, “This stone is hard, but I can’t see to find somewhere softer…” Her voice wavers and falters, but sitting here is hurting her back. 

He stands, “Here, I will lead you to a mossy patch, there’s one nearby.”

She flinches as he touches her, but allows the stranger, Garion, to guide her up and lead her away. Perhaps she shouldn’t trust him, but she does. She can defend herself, should something happen. He guides her down to a much nicer place to sit. He sits a short distance away, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

She hesitates, but nods. Her sobs have stopped, but still the feeling remains. She wipes at her sightless eyes, as if to get rid of tears that would never come. Garion is silent, but it brings no tension, no sense of awkwardness or lack of privacy. After a moment she turns her head to him.

“Why are you helping me…?”

“Because you need it. If I can help, I will.” 

“You don’t have a grudge against Lightbearers…?”

The question hangs in the air for a long moment. It becomes quiet enough that she can hear the sound of a stream somewhere in the distance. There’s a soft sound of leaves being rustled.

“... You are no Lightbearer. Any grudge I may have against them matters not.” 

Shemira smiles softly, “You heard that from Niru, didn’t you?” A sudden laugh confirms this for her, and she can’t help but giggle behind her hand. His laughter is contagious, like a fresh log thrown in an open bonfire. Her dismay is curbed for the moment, reminded of her husband’s gentle manner.

“Yes… he is a kind man for a Graveborn. I… haven’t met others before.” At the quiet admission, she reaches towards him and finds a surface covered with a fine, gentle fur. So soft, even in death. 

“It’s a strange existence… You were reborn not too long ago, weren’t you?” She asks, gently running her fingers through that fur. It’s an odd sort of comfort and his cold muscles seem to relax under her touch. 

“I’ve lost track of time in these woods. Two months? Maybe three?” 

“If it helps, you’ve been near our crypt for about a month.” Shemira’s blind eyes search the void before her, as if realizing how far above her his voice is, even sitting. She shifts a touch closer, “I haven’t been dead even a year yet.”

A soft chuckle, then the fur under her hand moves, “Do you know the way back? The sun will be coming up soon.”

Shemira heaves a sigh, “...no, actually. I do not.” She admits, “I ran off without thinking. Is it really almost sunrise…? Feels like so soon.”

He stands, helping her up and she realizes that expanse of fur is his hand, a large paw that easily envelopes her hand. She pauses, and makes him stay still as she runs her hand over it, eventually finding his claws. He must have lead her with one of them. Oh, the image made her smile just a touch. But once she was satisfied, she nodded, and he set his full paw on her back.

They walked in relative silence back to the crypt.

Once she realized she knew the ground under her feet, she heard her son’s voice call out to her and then heard the boy run to her and hug her. Garion stepped away just before the young man wrapped his arms around her. She hugged back, laughing softly, “I wasn’t going anywhere forever, Daimon…” She pets her son’s hair, then turns to where she last remembered Garion being, “Come inside with us, Garion. You’re welcome in our crypt. It’s probably a better place out of the sun than wherever you have in the woods.”

“... I… I couldn’t...” Garion begins, but Daimon is quick to insist.

“Please? I heard you killed that wolf I found! How did you do it without me hearing? I wanna know!”

Garion wavers, then laughs under his breath, “Alright. At least for one day.” He shakes his head, and Shemira hears him follow her and her son into the crypt.


	4. Words and Weapons

So much for a peaceful and pleasant new life with these new people, with his new faction. He'd hoped to find someone he could call his people again.

This isn't what he had in mind.

Garion's tail lashes behind him, the sickle like blade keeping the commanders of Thoran's army at a comfortable distance. His arms are crossed, eyes steadily meeting Thoran's across the table.

"I am no soldier, I am a diplomat. My vengeance against those who murdered my tribe was an unorganized, merciless, berserker's rage." Garion takes a long drag off of a spiced cigarette in his hand. One of the last pieces he has of his old faction. 

He blows the smoke out as he continued speaking, "But I can tell you one thing. That city? Controlled by Hypogeans? Will not fall to your army. It's already been taken by a massive army and if that army took up root there? Breaching the walls will be kicking open an anthill. The Hypogeans aren't an enemy that will stop once you get past the wall." 

He taps the ashes off of his smoke to the side, "It will gush like an infected cyst, and that infection will overtake your army." He moves over, tail thumping against a chair and yanking it out from under the table. He settles into it for the debate he's certain is coming. 

Thoran's face is twisted into a furious snarl as Garion lifts his fragrant pleasure back to his lips, smoke drifting over the table as the former mauler's lips part to let it out of his useless lungs.

The former king leans forward, glaring daggers into a disinterested face, "My armies are the undead, I will raise them again and again and we will bury the demons! We will rip that corruption out like the filthy weed it is! The Lightbearers will not go to Mauler lands, they are too busy retaking their own cities and bickering amongst themselves without a king. The Maulers will not attack, not in time. The tribes were scattered! Wilders sit only in their precious woods and wait to be overrun." Thoran sits back again, certain he is made clear, "This one city could be the death of us all, even those of us who have already spat in Annih's face. My army can move at a moment's notice and we will not fall."

Garion is patient. He waits for the king's anger to be spent. He leans back, "If you cared so deeply about the state of the world you would have already moved your army." He rumbles a little laugh, "Don't try to win me with a sob story for the world." He flicks a claw across the butt of his cigarette, ash joining the dust of death in the chamber, "I don't care why, you asked how. But I'll turn and ask you..." He takes a long drag, still holding Thoran's gaze, "How will you raise your armies again when the Hypogean forces will possess every one that falls? Their numbers will grow as yours fall."

Thoran's confidence wavers.

"They do not die, they are death itself. When one is defeated, there is nothing to bring back to turn to your side. The Graveborn army you have carefully cultivated will only be a catalyst for the infection. You cannot fight them with sheer numbers."

Thoran's eye contact rips away from Garion, and he glares at the table. He sits back and crosses his arms, his entire plan laid to waste by some…  _ mauler. _ His raspy voice comes again, as a taunting, dry snap, "What you suggest then,  _ diplomat _ ?" 

Garion heaves a sigh and looks at the map. Now they were getting somewhere, even if only vaguely. The festering city was a problem that needed dealing with, still. Convincing Thoran from his suicide mission didn't mean the threat isn't still there. He sits at attention, now, looking over the battle plan Thoran has set out. It's solid strategy, he's sure. He'd never taken an interest in Lightbearer warfare, though. So he can only trust the warlords around him. He leaves his smoke between his lips and weaves his fingers together, elbows on the map.

"The attack is solid… as a distraction. My only offer of solution is to employ a mauler ambush on a larger scale. You know how mauler ambushes go. You think there's a serious attack, and then while your energy is wasted on holding little things at bay, a berserker infiltrates the camp to kill the highest commanders." He hums, standing to adjust some of the pieces on the map around. 

Thoran has gone from spiteful to genuine interest as Garion speaks, "But you'll need more than one berserker. A small group, maybe four or five." He jabs a purple pin in the dead center of the city, "Hypogeans are chaotic but they still have a chain of command. Where they settle there is always a boss. And if that boss is killed they scatter." 

He sets down five pieces and moves them on the other side of the city, "You'll need maybe two main offensive units. Three if possible and at least one a scout. Someone for defense, and a medic." He leans on the table now, "Your attack will look like an all out affront, like you intended. The Hypogean forces will respond in kind. And this group will come in from behind and underneath. Maulers may be tribal, but we--  _ they're _ not savages. There's a sewage system there. The squadron inside can search for the boss and kill it."

He looks up at Thoran again, seeing those bright green eyes searching the only slightly adjusted plan. There was a quiet rasp, one Garion wasn't even sure he'd truly heard.

"I'll take it into consideration." The former king rumbled, then waved his hand to dismiss Garion. Without so much as a bow, he turned on a paw and left, passing a glowering Grezhul on the way out. He knew he was being watched on the way out. He'd felt the burn of angry eyes in his back more times than he could count.

* * *

 

Garion is perched on one of his makeshift bookcases. Again. Niru sighs, turning to put away a newly bound book, "Please get down from there. Some of those aren't notes I can rewrite if you catch them on fire, they're delicate tomes." 

A beat. Garion suddenly snaps to attention, "Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry. S'comfy up here, though." The man carefully climbs down. Niru sighs and shakes his head.

"Sorry? Like you climbed up there on accident? If you want to be up high you  _ are _ allowed to go back outside you know." He gathers a few jars from another shelf.

"I'd rather not be alone." 

Niru shrugs, "Then go find Daimon. I'm sure he'd love to climb trees with you."

A heaved sigh, "I love the kid but I don't. Think I'm in a good place to keep an eye on him. I'll stay off the shelves."

Niru glances over and quirks a brow, "I see. Just don't get in my way." He turns back to go to his desk, setting the ingredients out. Before he starts on anything, though, Garion speaks up once more.

"Would it bother your work if we spoke? Nothing specific, just…" 

Niru throws a small glare to the first thing in his vision, but sighs, "Yes, it would. I have to concentrate." He pushes a lock of hair out of his face and focuses, quietly thanking Dura that Garion keeps quiet while he mixes the bonedust and other powered ingredients. The process has to be careful, precise. 

And Garion seems intent on not bothering him. Simply existing in the same space. He minds it much less than he thought he would, more used to Grezhul's bitching whenever he came to 'pay his dues' to the pair who kept the crypt protected and hidden. 

As focused as he is, he doesn't realize Garion has come nearby to watch him. He turns abruptly and nearly runs into the man. He pulls himself up short and sighs, "Interested in necromancy?" He asks, moving around Garion to find something else he needed. Garion steps out of the way, though he still seems dazed.

"Something like that. Sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you." His tail brushes over the ground as he steps back and away from the table.

“You’re concerned about something.” Niru sighs, giving in to the former mauler’s desire to talk. He shakes the vial in his hand, making sure the solution inside is properly mixed, as he returns to his desk, “Thoran’s plan to attack the Hypogean forces, I’m sure.”

Garion blinks at him, but shrugs, “His plan is foolish and hard headed. I offered an alternative but if he takes it… I don’t doubt he’ll want me to participate. I’m sick of fighting.”

Niru barked a short laugh, combining the solution with the other ingredients he had. Garion’s nose crinkled at the burning stench that came from the reaction. The necromancer used one claw to stir it in, the hard surface of his fingers seemingly unaffected by the hissing, steaming concoction, “Thoran asked something like that of me…”

“Why?” Garion blurted without thinking, leaning against a wall, “I mean… I mean no offense but all I’ve seen of you is more passive magic, not battlefield magic. Potions and resurrection…”

“And that’s all I want to be. One moment…” Niru wiped his claw off on the edge of the bowl and plucked up a dull shard of a crystal, tossing it into the concoction. Garion went quiet, letting the necromancer work. Niru’s claws spread over the bowl, a muttering of arcane language spilling from his blackened lips like flowing tar. The fluid twisted with an eldritch glow, spiralling inwards and spitting the whole while. Garion’s ears suddenly rang as though there had been a gunshot, and the fluid was done, leaving behind the crystal. Now it shone with that deathly sheen, something seemed to move within it as Niru’s careful claws plucked it from the clean bowl. He held it up to the torchlight, examining it and turning it in his hands. 

“...I was once a field medic for the Lightbearers. I’ve seen the battlefields between our former factions. The best they had.” He turned to Garion and held up the crystal, “But this is my passion. And as loath as I am to revisit the battlefield, I cannot pursue it with Annih breathing down the neck of existence.” He dropped the crystal into his palm and turned to lay it on the table, getting a metal latch and starting to connect it to the crystal. “So I will be a medic again. But I will not sit by the sidelines and wait for the wounded.” 

Once the crystal was connected, Niru went to a scythe, previously unseen by the mauler and leaning against the wall. Garion’s eyes trail the length of that wicked blade. Niru connects the crystal to a chain on the scythe’s back end, “Shemira and I will both be on the field this time.” He hefts the solid metal weapon off the wall and swings it heavily through the air, the glow trailing behind the sweeping motion, “And I will deal as much death as I will stop.” He hums his approval at the crystal’s work and holds the scythe like one would a staff, the end against the ground, “If Thoran does ask you to take to the battlefield, remember that this fight is more than a skirmish between two factions. The demons don’t care that we are outcast or seen as evil by other factions, they will kill us all one and the same. If Thoran asks for your help, give it to him.”

Glowing claws flex slowly, then relax, “My body was a weapon for most of my life. I suppose it won’t hurt for it to be a weapon for a short part of a long unlife.”


End file.
